I sit with my hands between my knees like they might float away if I don't anchor them.
Luca's next to me under the stairs, sketching like nothing's wrong.
Like I didn't just almost drown in my own silence all week.
Like I'm not full of knives I can't name.
He draws an octopus wearing glasses.
Says it reminds him of Bear.
That makes me want to laugh.
I don't.
My mouth won't move right today.
It's not that I don't want to speak.
I want to say everything.
All of it.
The hallway.
The food.
The voices.
The bathroom tile.
The way my skin still flinches when the wind hits it wrong.
The dreams.
The ache.
The time I stood over the sink and wondered how much pain counts as too much.
But when I open my mouth-
Nothing.
Just air.
Just pressure.
Like something pressing on my throat from the inside.
He doesn't rush me.
Doesn't nudge or pry.
Just keeps sketching.
His shoulder brushes mine sometimes.
Warm.
Unapologetic.
I envy that.
The way he just is.
Like breathing isn't hard for him.
Like he doesn't second-guess his own heartbeat.
I stare at the pencil marks on the page.
A rocket ship shaped like a pineapple.
A bear with a crown.
Me.
He drew me.
Tiny on the edge of the paper.
Curled up. Hoodie sleeves long. Eyes heavy.
He doesn't label it.
Doesn't point it out.
Just leaves it there.
Like he's saying, I see you. I've been seeing you.
I think about telling him.
I think about saying:
"When I was eleven, a boy hurt me so badly I forgot what it meant to feel clean."
I think about saying:
"The girls at school see me as competition. The boys see me as a dare. The teachers see nothing at all."
I think about saying:
"I wanted to die last week. And maybe I still do. But I also wanted someone to stop me."
But my mouth-
won't.
Instead, I look away.
Shame blooming under my skin like mold.
I expect him to notice.
To ask.
To press.
But he doesn't.
Instead, he sets the pencil down and says-
"You don't have to tell me to be loved."
The words don't land all at once.
They echo.
They unfold.
They hurt.
Like sunlight after too long in the dark.
Like a whisper in a locked room.
I blink fast.
Once.
Twice.
My chest tightens, then loosens, then tightens again.
Because no one's ever said that to me before.
Not without a catch.
Not without expecting something back.
Luca doesn't look at me when he says it.
He just tears the drawing out, folds it, and slides it toward my bag.
Then sits back.
Still here.
Still quiet.
Still mine, in this strange, not-quite-way.
I don't say thank you.
I don't say anything.
But I don't run.
Not this time.
I stay.
And for now-
That's enough.